


God's Abundant Blessing

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Consequences, Gen, M/M, Minor Gender Games, families, gender swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 12:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Another one that's not likely to run the whole length of a story--if only because IMO the outcome is really rather obvious when you get to the conclusion.Set-up: Aziraphale and Crowley, having had a wonderful time with spiritual "sex," have been having an equally wonderful time exploring all the many options their adaptable mortal bodies offer for human-style sex. They are, however, an angel. And a demon. Having mortal sex...It proceeds logically from that assumption on.I have tried to keep the pronouns more or less straight. But don't bet on perfection. I gave it a good second read, but that's all...





	God's Abundant Blessing

Aziraphale woke the morning after feeling dense in the most heavenly way. Weighty, as though he contained the heart of a neutron star, his feet pressing solid against the worn boards of the floor of his flat. He stretched, letting his spine go long, long, longer; he flexed his arms wide to embrace the word. He raked his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp and smiling as the locks slipped between his fingers and bounced back into fleecy curls. His breasts lay heavy on his chest, full and round, deep-chested, pink nipples jutting merry. His stomach, round and graceful, would have put Venus to shame. His thighs ached from the previous night’s…

He shivered, eyes closed in the tender morning sun. He still stalled out on words. “Love making?” “Sex?” “Rutting?” All seemed applicable in the blissful morning after. Ever since he and Crowley had moved first to the intimacy of immortals, and then onward to explore the intimacy of mankind…

Like fine wine and aged cheese, like a perfect plate of sushi or an afternoon tea at the Ritz, there was something splendidly sensual about human intimacy. It begged to be shared in a way immortal intimacy merely required. Without a partner, angelic and demonic intimacy did not happen at all…Human bodies played by broader rules. Much broader!

Which was lovely. Quite spiffingly lovely!

So lovely that it failed to occur to Aziraphale that he was still in the same female form he’d worn with Crowley the night before, so content was he in remembering their love, and experiencing the physical afterglow carried hours into the following day. He showered, barely noting the difference in conformation. He scrubbed his teeth and toweled his tousled curls, indifferent to the fact that the fogged bathroom mirror deprived him of a view of his own body. He pulled on boxers and vest without understanding dawning—and it was only when he tried to put on his trousers that understanding dawned, as he wondered why the legs were suddenly too long, the arse too tight, and the waistband entirely wrong for him.

For her.

She blinked, then, and stepped gingerly out of the linen of his trousers, folding them carefully and draping them over a trouser hanger. (She was, after all, still Aziraphale. Some things do not change regardless of your body…)

She walked over to the old Regency standing mirror in the corner of the bedroom and gazed through the smoky, spangled glass at her own reflection.

Short. Plump. Soft. Her hair was a short crop of crazy curls, tumbling over her brow and the nape of her neck. Her face was heart-shaped, and her lips full, and she smiled wickedly remembering all the things she and Crowley had found that mouth capable of together.

When you are an angel, it is difficult to properly assess your own body. It is malleable, changeable, and yet it still speaks of you. Crowley, in woman form, had to exert enormous effort not to manifest as a skeletally thin Scotswoman with hair both black and the red of wild-cherry punk dye. His—her—breasts were tiny, and when she and a male Aziraphale made love they barely filled the cup of the angel’s relaxed palm—yet his mouth on the demon’s nipples could send Crowley into screaming orgasm, given time and tenderness and persistence. Similarly, this radiant pocket Venus was how Aziraphale manifested as a woman, all else being equal and no effort being made to disguise himself. Herself. Whatever…

But he—she—had never hung over. It took effort to remain female. Aziraphale had to admit, his natural manifestation appeared to be decisively male, a condition only altered when there was cause to shift. He’d used the female body as a hiding place on occasion. He’d spent entire generations in the bookstore as his own “daughter,” inheritor of the old place from dear old Da. People did not tend to question the authenticity of that, when female Aziraphale was a good four inches shorter than male Aziraphale. Lately, though, when he had chosen to gender-swap, it had been a minor element of play between him and his—

Demon lover. His Demon Lover. He, Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate, had a Demon Lover!

Just thinking about it sent a sort of silent squee through his entire existence, and he looked in the mirror at his face, lit with glowing eyes and a smile even he could see was radiant.

And, yet—he had never woken in this body without first choosing to.

She’d done that. Once. Curious to see what it would be like to sleep the night spooned with the long, lanky demon, both women curled between the covers, contented. It had been quite nice. She’d slowly drifted to consciousness feeling Crowley’s fingers cup Aziraphale’s full, heavy breasts and seek for her tender teats. She’d never known a day could start so well!

But last night she had made no such decision. Crowley had needed to leave early, up to no good, no doubt. Aziraphale had dropped easily into sleep, sure she’d wake in his ordinary manifestation.

Instead—

She smiled, stroked her body one more time in fond memory of Crowley’s previous efforts, and willed herself male…

***

“Crowley, I need you over here at mine. Now.”

Crowley, more than a little happy with his own afterglow, cocked his head. Aziraphale never called him in her female persona. At least, not when she wasn’t wearing it for a few decades to throw suspicious neighbors off the scent of her angelic origins. Just thinking about it, a smile flicked over his wide lips, lifted the dour brackets of his face, crinkled his eyes into crow’s feet behind his glasses. Dear Angel—soft and fair and graceful and plump and forever pleasing, and intensely male in spite of being gayer than a WI cider-tasting party.

His Angel Lover.

“Yeah, um—why? Supposed to be meeting wi’ some refugee djinn gettin’ picked on for not taking part in Ramadan last year. Can it—”

“No. It cannot wait.” Aziraphale’s voice rose, sharp and thin. “I need you here now, Crowley.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Aziraphale just said, more forcefully still, “NOW! What part of ‘now’ don’t you understand, dammit?”

It was the swearword that did it for both of them, apparently tumbling Aziraphale into frantic tears and Crowley into the firm conviction his partner was in trouble. Big trouble.

How big, he didn’t even imagine.

***

“I tell you, I can’t change back!” Aziraphale shrieked at her lover. She still stood naked in the middle of his bedroom, no longer looking sated and content, flushed and steamy from the shower, well-rested after long lovemaking followed by a good night’s sleep. Instead her face was wan. Her inherent “middle-aged” pleasant visage seemed older, more crinkled and worn. Tear marks tracked gummy lines down her cheeks. When Crowley went to embrace her she struck out in frantic dismay, pettish in her terror.

“Oi, look, I hear you, Angel. I hear you. But—have you tried—”

“I have tried everything! Do you hear me? EVERYTHING! I’m stuck. It won’t go away.” Aziraphale dropped to the edge of the bed, cradled her face in her hands, and wept, lost in hopelessness.

Crowley carded his fingers through his hair, looking for quick fixes—or at least silver linings.

“Well—at least we can still have fun,” he pointed out, attempting optimistic cheer. “Did well enough last night, yeah?”

He escaped the bedroom just in time to avoid downright divine smiting.

Downstairs in the bookstore he did the entirely unlikely, and attempted to find books offering help. As it happens, there were none—angelic entities lodged firmly in alternate bodies were not a previous issue in Earth’s comparatively short history. Frankly, the majority of angels preferred to remain in their immortal, astral forms. Those who did wear their bodies constantly did it as an act of military discipline, for the most part, and annoyed their peers with military calisthenics and long runs while wearing full-kit. But Crowley, unaware of the dearth of reference, felt the failure personally. This was Aziraphale’s gig—and what a shame that poor Aziraphale needed a useless old serpent like him to fill in for him. Her. Whatever…

He considered all the ways he fell short. He considered changing to his own womanly form in solidarity. But—

The memory of the lightning bolt that had just missed his bum left him a bit unwilling to try. Not without time to evaluate his partner’s mood. Instead…

What did human women do when they had “woman trouble?” He pondered…and made a few phone calls.

***

“Now, now, dearie, it’s no bother,” Madam Tracy said. “We’re perfectly happy to give a hand. Aren’t we, lass?”

She shot a fierce look at Anathema, who sat, stunned, on the opposite side of Aziraphale’s bed. She had just discovered that “too much learning maketh thee mad.” She now knew things she had never wished to know about angels, angels’ bedrooms, and angels’ recreational activities when paired with a Demon Lover.

On the other hand, she thought with a guilty giggle, she could hardly wait to get home to tell Newt.

Newt would be fascinated. Totally fascinated…

Madam Tracy smacked the younger woman’s arm with a sharp back-wrist blow. “Oi! Wakey-wakey, love. We’re needed.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” She smiled at the older women—at the newly decorous “Mrs. Tracy Shadwell,” common-law wife of Witchfinder Corporal Shadwell, and the sweet, muzzy, angelic Aziraphale. “Got distracted.” She considered.

“You’ve tried everything?”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, and both visitors were reminded of the black tangle of scorch marks on the bedroom wall, near the door.

“Now, now—no smiting,” Madam Tracy said, sharply. “’S not our fault you and your mister been playing a Game of Groans in your off hours and you got stuck wearing silly costumes.”

Aziraphale blushed, then, and twiddled her fingers in her lap. “Sorry. Sorry. I just—” She went misty, and grabbed a tissue from the pack Anathema offered from her well-stocked purse. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m stuck!” When Madam Tracy risked a wry, wicked-grinned “Ever so, from the sounds of it,”she sighed. “All right, all right. I suppose we were playing with fire. But I’ve never heard of an angel trapped in a disguised body before. Can you help?”

Anathema and Madam Tracy consulted for a minute, then Anathema spoke up. “It’s nothing we’ve ever heard of either. But—we can look in ways most other people can’t. Maybe if we witch at you? Study you with the inner eye? Read your aura? At least we may be able to figure out what’s wrong, for a start.”

A good plan, and one agreed on by all three.

Minutes later, Anathema gasped.

“What, lovey?” Madam Tracy, eyes shut, had been reaching into the Empyrian, and shoving away an outsized mob of tittering, giggling spirits who kept nudging her and winking at her. She opened her eyes, and met Anathema’s merry ones. “What is it? Th’ spirits are all in a tizzy, but they won’t say aught!”

Anathema giggled, and looked at Aziraphale. “Congratulations,” she said. “It’s a coven.”

“What!?” Aziraphale sat upright, dismayed. “What?”

Madam Tracy frowned. “I’m with ‘im. What?”

Anathema pointed one long, elegant finger at herself. “Maiden—for a certain childless value of maidenhood.” Then she pointed at Madam Tracy, and shrugged apology. “Crone. Not my choice of vocabulary, but you’ve got ‘Old age and treachery’ entirely on your side.”

Madam Tracy gasped, then, sharply, and her eyes turned to Aziraphale. “You don’t mean…”

“Yep,” said Anathema in the perkiest of American accents. “Aziraphale, welcome to motherhood. You’re having a baby.”

The angel fainted.

***

So, too, did the demon, in spite of Aziraphale’s efforts to break the news gently later that evening.

It had been a long, long day. Aziraphale, new possessor of a doubled aura, sat wearily on the floor and took her lover’s limp hand. She stroked his long fingers, and sighed, before lying close behind and spooning the unconscious demon.

She held on tight, trying not to be too afraid.

There was, she thought, one silver lining.

“You’re going to be a wonderful father,” she whispered, remembering Crowley with Warlock and young Adam. “A marvelous, wonderful father.”

In his sleep, Crowley moaned, and fled further into unconsciousness.

Earth was such a fierce little world, and it ate its children alive. For the first time he understood what pure terror really was. In retrospect the Fall looked like summer beach holiday…


End file.
